A helping hand
by HalloweenPanda
Summary: Watson's cravat is askew and is running late to see patients. Luckily Holmes it there to help him. Or just help himself. Smut Smut. Sorry for horrible historic inaccurasy. This is a script base that I'm doing for a doujinshi. Please give me all your feed back.


**Hi. This is a script base for a doujinshi I intend to make and would love any and all feed back on it. Sorry of Historical mistakes. w**

It was late in the morning, in the cozy flat of 221B Baker Street, when Sherlock Holmes exited his room, his eyes still heavy with sleep.

Uttering a yawn, his mousy colored dressing gown hanging openly upon his neatly clothed form of a fresh crisp shirt and waistcoat, the consulting detective gave a long stretch, his long spine giving a serenade of cracks and pops which drew a heavenly sigh, as all the kinks and stiffness melted away.

Clasping an unlit pipe between his teeth, Sherlock Holmes made his way over to the freshly set out breakfast table, feeling only slightly peckish.

"Good morning, Holmes." a familiar voice called out cheerily.

Glancing his sharp, silver eyes over to the only other occupant, he gave a slight, unenthusiastic nod followed by a grunt.

John H. Watson. Long time flatmate, boswell, and nearly only friend to the detective. Always the ever loyal man; he was right at Holmes' side through the darkest case, and even the detective's darkest moods.

This morning, he was just in the process of fastening his cufflinks, having dressed and groomed himself after rising. He smiled, chuckling at the grunt from his old friend. He was long since used to Holmes' moods. "What, is that ever brilliant mind of yours still wandering in the land of dreams?"

"Please cease your romanticist prattle before I've had my pipe." Holmes retorted, but his voice held none of the usual bite. "If I'm not careful, I may mistake you quoting one of your over exaggerated narratives and thus will kindly ask you to keep silent or face the scourge of my crop." He was still standing from where he emerged, tossing his dressing gown onto the settee, removing his pipe and checking to see if it needed filling. But this was but a moot distraction, for his eyes were solely focused on the good doctor, standing by the bow windows.

The sunlight drenched his form in it's golden light, his light brown hair nearly as golden as the sun, shimmering in the new day's grace. How his eyes shined, those blue hues the envy of any summer sky.

At that moment they were focused on the other cuff, fastening it into place. "Ah, what an impeccably charming mood your in, so early this morning." he replied smartly.

"Off to see some patients, are we?" Holmes remarked in a bored tone, ignoring the jib and breakfast set out for him, settling for the Persian slipper for some fresh tobacco.

This startled Watson, who opened his mouth to ask how on earth he knew, but closed it, smiling instead, knowing this man's nearly supernatural skill of observation. "Yes. Just visiting a few cases that need my assistance. I'll be back by the time Mrs. Hudson makes plans for supper; which she has left to shop for, by the way."

"Oh dear. How will I _**ever**_ pass the time, pinning away the minutes till your return?" the detective retorted tersely, earning a glare for his dramatics.

But Watson couldn't stay mad. "Try not to miss me too much." he laughed brightly, slipping his coat on.

Holmes watched his face light up while he laughed; brighter than the sun's rays surrounding him.

Lighting his pipe, and taking a few grateful draws of smoke, he breathed the strong scented smoke past his lips. "Watson..."

Watson looked up, and just in time, when the towering lithe man appeared before him with as much noise as a cat. Jumping with a start. His voice quickly caught in his throat when his eyes caught sight of those sharp ones that so resembled a bird of prey.

Holmes stared down at him in his usual calm, observing manner. But for some reason it left the doctor feeling rather uncomfortable, being scrutinized under that silver gaze.

"Ho-Holmes...?" he asked nervously.

After what seemed like lifetimes, the consulting detective finally answered. "Your cravat is askew."

Watson blinked. "Ah- Really? How odd. I was sure it was fine." Looking down, he tried to examine the flaw in an attempt to adjust it.

"No, no, no." the taller man berated, slapping his hands away. "You're just making it worse."

Watson huffed. "I can put a cravat on just fine, Holmes."

"My dear Watson, if that were true then why is it resembling a sailor's cat's paw*."

They both looked down, and indeed, it did resemble a sailor's knot.

Watson was flabbergasted. "Wh-what? How in heaven..." Grabbing the material, he attempted to undo the jumbled mess.

Holmes shook his head and took the doctor's hands away and set them down to his sides. "Here. Allow me." he insisted. Using his long, skillful fingers, stained from chemical acids and ink, they nimbly set to work on fixing the cravat.

After a few moments, the man sighed. Stepping behind Watson, Holmes slipped his finger into the knot and tugged it free.

"Holmes?" the doctor blinked. "What are you doing?"

"So sorry, my dear doctor." the man spoke, his warm breath upon Watson's neck. His long fingers slid around his throat and along his jawline. "But you see..." his lips lightly touched the nape of his neck. "Your cravat just refuses to behave..."

The smaller man gasped, spinning around to push the other away. "Holmes! Wh-what are you doing, man? I-I have patients!" he sputtered, his face turning pink.

Crossing his arms, Holmes turned up his nose, showing how deeply offended he was. "I was simply trying to adjust your cravat correctly, Watson." he spoke with an icy tone. Turning to the window, he observed the bright new day with cold indifference, lifting his shoulders as he went on. "Is it so wrong to be concerned about my most oldest and dearest of friend's appearance?"

Watson lowered his head, ashamed by his outburst and quick judgment. "I... Si-since you put it that way, please accept my humblest of apologies and my repulsive criticism upon you character, old friend." Watson reached out and placed a hand on his dear friend's shoulder. "Please forgive me."

Holmes continued to stare out the window, but his cold exterior seemed to melt. "Oh, dearest Watson..." Closing his eyes, he gave one of his rare smiles and tapped his pipe out. "I accept your apology."

In a flash, the buttons of Watson's waistcoat were mysteriously undone and the man's large hands stroked across the planes of the good doctor's chest, those long fingers massaging into his crisp white shirt.

Watson retreated against the nearest wall, his face turning hotter than a steamship's furnace. "Dear lord, man! What are you doing!?" he all but yelled in a high voice full of astonishment and fluster. His fluster only grew as he realized the consulting detective still held his cravat between his long, elegant fingers as if it were a leash.

Holmes smiled and closed the distance. "Now, now. It's all very simple." he spoke in his usual manner when explaining a solution to a simple problem. But instead of sitting in his comfortable chair by the fire, the tips of his fingers touching, he was cornering the good doctor, tracing his lips along the cravat and up to his neck. "Since your cravat was rather rumpled," he stared into Watson's flushed face who looked away bashfully, "then there may be another article of clothing in need of correction. Therefore..."

His hands caressed down the man's ribs till resting on his hip and drifting, just a bit, onto his derriere. Inching his face closer, his mouth ghosted close to Watson's ear; the tip of his long, beak-like nose just barely brushing his hair, and whispered in a deep voice. "... we should remove everything from top to bottom and start from the beginning."

The doctor didn't even have a chance to scream before he was pounced upon. Slipping down the wall, Watson's mouth repeatedly gaped and silently screamed, thrashing about like a freshly caught fish. But the detective paid no mind and calmly kept his hips pinned in his arms, roaming his mouth over his chest and stomach. He inwardly smiled at the soft mewls the doctor unknowingly let out.

Feeling his breath catch, Watson stubbornly wrestled to push the taller, stronger man off. "Holmes! For the Queen and all of her kingdom's sake! Desist in my disrobement!" With another yelp, he pounds his fist in to his back. "Stop touching!"

Holmes ignored his wails, and futile fighting, and easily turned him on to his stomach. Tugging the shirt from his trousers, he licks a wet line along the small of his back, just mere centimeters from his bottom.

Watson's face was blistering hot, letting out a very unmanly shriek. No, no, no! He could not let himself be swept away. For God's sake, he had patients waiting. And not just that, that gleam in those eyes spoke that he would **NOT **be leaving any time soon. **OR **getting a wink of sleep tonight.

With that thought fueling him for escape, he clawed at the floor; fighting back a whimper when he was nipped. 'NO-ho-ho!'

He had to escape, but how!?

Then his eyes fell upon it. Holmes one and only Achilles's heel. Perched preciously in the corner, surrounded by old reference books and criminal relics, sat Holmes Stradivarius, tucked endearingly in it's case.

A crazed notion suddenly struck the desperate man.

Managing to slip out of the detective's clutches, Watson lunged forward, snatching up the case. And in the blink on an eye, throws the bow windows open and holds the violin out, dangling it over the bustle of Baker Street.

Holmes had been in a bit of a lazy daze, enjoying his prey squirm and mewl adorably. That is, till said prey had sprang forth and snatched up his precious Stradivarius' case with intent of dropping it to it's demise.

"What are you doing, Watson!" the man exclaimed, a slight panic tinging his voice. "Have you lost your senses!?"

Watson turned sharply at him. "Holmes, I have become a desperate man! One who has used any and all means for survival on and off the battle field!" He was panting heavily, both from flustered excitement and a bit of arousal. His eyes flashed dangerously, his mouth firm, daring the other to even move.

Holmes had risen to his knees, his eyes wide in shock. Then, slowly, he lowered on his haunches. "Watson... I beg of you... Forgive me." His voice was so low, and pleading, absolutely unnatural for a man such as Sherlock Holmes to sound that way.

Bracing his hands on the floor, Sherlock Holmes, the most brilliant mind of all the world, hung his head to plead forgiveness. "I have wronged you, my dear friend. But only because my affections for you were so strong. I've often spoke of the uselessness of tender emotions, but when it comes to you, dear doctor, I simply lose my head. I'm so sorry." Here he tentatively looked up. "Please..." he begged to the one who held his fate in his hand., "Please. Do not destroy the only means to my soul."

Watson felt his heart break. He felt terrible. Like the most foulest of beings on earth. Never had he heard Holmes speak with such sincerity and regret.

"Oh God, Holmes." he uttered, horrified at what he'd done. Of all the things Holmes cherished in the world it was his Stradivarius. And he, the blackerd of a villain that he was, had dared to even propose harm upon it. "I'm so sorry, old boy. I went too far. Really, I had no intentions of harming your precious stringed instrument. I know how much this means to you."

Watson's shirt flies open with Holmes' hands fondling his chest. Watson, speechless, gaped with wide eyes, not understanding what just happened or how it happened.

Then, light a bolt of lighting, the reality of the situation struck. "Holmes, you bloody bastard!" The furious doctor swings his arm to belt the infuriating man.

Holmes dodges, but Watson loses his footing in the swing and falls backwards, his arm hitting the panes.

The Stradivarius slips from his grasp and plummets.

And thus the instrument, that on so many nights either wailed a heavenly tune or yowled notes of inconsistency from his owner's loving and caring hands of so many years, met it's end. Or at least it would have until those same hands caught it in mid fall.

Holmes had lunged for the violin case the instant Watson lots his footing, and successfully caught it. Sadly, he had miscalculated his weight and position and was already out the window, the streets rushing to meet him.

But it seemed fate decided to intervene in their meeting, as a pair of strong arms ensnared the taller man's waist, holding him back from falling to the streets below.

Watson held the compulsive mad man by his waist with all his might, bracing his knees against the wall.

How did he get himself into these situations? _How!? _

"Watson." the dangling man called up, holding his violin tightly to his chest. "Would you be so kind as to pull me back up? We're attracting a few onlookers." Down below, a few people were looking up, but most of them passed on without a second glance. Seasoned residents that have long became accustomed to the insane happenings where that particular flat, and it's inhibitors, were concerned.

Watson had a good mind to just drop the detective. Inspector Lestrade would never hold it against him.

Gritting his teeth, and a loud grunt, Watson pulled Holmes back inside the flat, his shoulder and leg protesting loudly, and shut the window before collapsing on the floor.

His heart was pounding a thousand beats a minute, which he knew was not good for his nerves, from a medical stand point. But damn, if it did not scare him half to death when that violin slipped from his fingers. And if that didn't then seeing his fellow lodger falling out the window after it must have sent him skipping along the valley of death.

Watson leaned back against the wall, right next to the very cause of all his dilemma.

The saddest knowledge of it was, Holmes was just the type of person to do that to him on a regular basis.

Holmes, as usual, was composed and aloof, hugging the case of his Stradivarius close to his chest. Then he proceeds to examine it thoroughly for any blemishes.

Watching this, Watson frowned and looked away. "I'm truly sorry, Holmes..." he mumbled under his breath. "I really lost my head. But to even go so far as to..." The guilt he felt coiled in his stomach. "I really didn't mean to drop it."

Holmes said nothing, continuing to examine the violin case. He could hear Watson shift anxiously, waiting to be berated and told what a lowly being he was.

After a few moments more, he spoke. "Watson..."

Watson turned to look at him, bracing himself for a tongue lashing, but was only met with a pair of warm lips touching his own.

"I know you did not mean to, dear Watson." Holmes said, their eyes only inches apart. "I flustered you so, but I had no idea you would hold my Stradivarius hostage." He saw Watson avert his eyes in shame. "Now, now. I knew you were never going to drop it." Using his nose, he coaxed Watson's to turn toward him. "There's my Watson."

Watson looked back shyly, his cheeks turning a very lovely shade of pink. His eyes were so sweet, that adoring shade of blue that no sky could match.

Holmes became lost to those beautiful hues and leaned his head in and claimed another kiss. How he loved the tickle of that perfectly kept mustache. Pulling away for a breath, he tilts his head to the side and bent in for another, more forceful kiss; forcing Watson back till the back of his head was pressed against the wall.

Watson trembled. Holmes took his bottom lip between his teeth and nibbled on it. His tongue extended and licked the soft moist skin that met with gums. Watson unwittingly opened his mouth as Holmes' soft tongue traced along the bottom row of his teeth. He whimpered softly when the soft, smooth appendage swept it and ran across his own pink one.

Holmes closed his mouth over his, stroking the wet, silken textures together. He could feel the doctor melt like butter, savoring the lingering taste of what he breakfasted earlier.

'Mmmm. Soft boiled egg, salted pork, scones with butter and, yes, a thick layer of blackberry preserves. Hm, and earl gray tea with a two, no three scoops of sugar.' he mentally observed. Watson was always weak to sweets.

As the detective took his time exploring the doctor's sweet mouth, he quietly snaked his long fingers from those quaking wrists, up his forearms, arms, then perching them up on to his broad shoulders. He continued onto his throat, red and warmed in a rosy flush, gliding up the nape of his neck. A thrilled chill ran down Watson's physic as he did this.

Oh. Seemed the good doctor was weak to having his nape touched just below the hairline.

Storing that bit of information, Holmes' hands finally met their destination, cradling Watson's head in them and deepening the kiss.

Watson mewled weakly through his nose, his mouth ruthlessly plundered and dominated by the man's lips and tongue. He could feel Holmes' form tower over and ease them both on the floor. The way he refused to break contact with his lips, giving only a moment to change angles every so often, left the doctor boneless, submissive and lightheaded; clawing at Holmes' sleeves.

Peeking an eye open, Holmes smirked to himself, feeling the good doctor's strong, skilled fingers dig into his arms, nearly tearing his shirt-sleeves.

Opening his mouth, Holmes released Watson from the kiss who took a loud breath as cool air rushed into his lungs.

Flames. From the tips of his toes to the ends of his hair, Watson felt as if he would combust. His freshly dressed clothing felt suffocating and stagnant, causing his flesh to swelter and cringe from it's soft chaffing. He wanted nothing more than to be relieved of the torturous garments. He wanted Holmes' gorgeous finger tips to draw them away and skim over his burning skin.

Reading his mind, Holmes brushes the thin layers of material from his chest, burying his nose in the hollow of his throat. "Watson..." he purred. The tips of his fingers danced across the man's chest, the soft hair feeling like spun silk.

Rolling Watson onto his side, the one without his old injury, Holmes turned his attention to those adorably candied red ears and ran his tongue along the outer shell. Watson made a small noise, only to make another as the man's beautifully elegant fingers lazily twiddled over one of his light brown nipples.

"N-...-o..."

Watson could barely speak. His senses only aware of the other closed up against his back. He could feel the lobe of his ear worried between his teeth before gently suckled and moaned when his nipple was tweaked. Instinctively he pinched his thighs closed, abashed by the swelling between them.

Holmes took note of this and smiled smugly. Such a bashful man, his Watson was.

"What ever is the matter, dear man?" he asked, giving his shoulder a bite. His hand stroked the light hair upon the man's chest. "Are you feeling any sort of discomfort?" Following the patch of hair, he traced the soft curls down his abdomen. "Here?" he asked, swirling around the navel. Watson shuddered. "Here?" he traced the deep lines and dips of his pelvis.

"... Holmes..." breathed Watson, shifting onto his back. The air felt pleasant against his hot skin, but the man's exploration of his body was only adding tinder to his flames.

Tasting the salt upon his skin, Holmes trailed his lips down Watson's jaw, grazing his teeth over his protruding larynx and down his chest. The soft chest hair tickled his lips. Reaching one of his nipples, he laves the tiny, pert nub wetly. The sweet sound the doctor let out was like honey to his ears.

Watson cried out weakly. Holmes' fingers danced across his swollen bulge, massaging him through his trousers. Removing those same fingers, they slip beneath lip of the trousers and under the stiff fabric. A sharp intake of breath, the man's blue eyes widen.

Holmes' well trained digits skim over the sensitive skin but never stopping. Further down they moved, past his genitals to stroke the smooth skin behind them. Applying just a small amount of pressure, the small of the man's back curved with a buck.

"Holmes..." he mewed, shivering at the soft circles the detective's wet tongue played around his nipples, taut as pebbles. Holmes stroked the pad of flesh. Then, those roughened pads upon his slim fingers, rubbed along his most secret of places, making him yelp in wanton delight.

"Ah-hah!"

Watson's face darkened, unbelieving of the sound that came out of his mouth.

Holmes, too, looked up with the most bewildered expression. This only turned his fellow lodger more red. Ashamed, and absolutely embarrassed, Watson quickly covered his face.

Little did he realize, with the combination of the sound he made, and now this most traumatic display of bashfulness, Sherlock Holmes' pulse shot off like a revolver.

"Watson..." he whispered softly, brushing his lips to the man's temple.

Watson tightened his arms stubbornly.

"Dear, Watson." he said again. The man flinched at his words, but relaxed. Encouraged, Holmes easily relieved him of his trousers, leaving them where they land.

He always loved observing those old wounds from Afghanistan. The twisted, scarred flesh, that resembled a chaotic spider's web, felt like ripples upon soften bedsheets beneath his palm. Already he could hear his Watson groan as he caressed his scars.

Ceasing in using his hands, the consulting detective maneuvered between Watson's thighs and continued to caress the marred flesh with his tongue.

Watson inhaled, writhing from the tantalizing sensations. Usually he's only ever feel pain and a low ache from his old battle wound, but now it inflamed in ecstasy. "Oh... hah... goo-... Go-d... Holmes..." Oh, how good Holmes was making him feel. How skillful this man was. His mind, his hands, his lips; how they melted Watson's soul. The fires of Hell were only a candle spark compared to the agonizing lust pulsing in his manhood.

Soon the tightness was becoming too painful to bare, therefore, one arm still draped over his hot face, Watson's free hand fluttered down his body, becoming slick with perspiration, touching his own erect length.

Just as he was about to grasp the heated flesh, Holmes swatted it away. "So impatient, my good man." he lectured reproachfully.

Wrapping his hand around the erect member, giving it a tight squeeze, just to hear the doctor gurgle, Holmes took complete control of his desires. Watson's hips rose into his touch, accompanied with a pitiable whimper.

'Why, oh why are you so damnably cute?' he wondered. Though, till his dying breath, Holmes will never permit himself to say such emasculating, and foolhardy words of romanticism. He was above those things.

"Oh, Holmes..."

Looking down, Holmes' eyes flick between Watson's gasping, lust filled face, and the throbbing ache between his fingers.

…. well, that isn't to say he wasn't above indulgence.

Dipping his head, he runs his tongue along the doctor's fullness; the pleasing salty yet bitter flavor dancing upon his taste-buds.

Without going any further, unfastening his pants, his thick, long manhood juts out. Cupping the back of Watson's head, he guides him to the weeping tip of his masculinity.

"My good man." he purred thickly, rubbing the tip of his crown across his swollen bottom lip. "Would you kindly do me the honor of allowing my Man Thomas* to savor your excellent quail-pipe?"*

Watson's face burned and glared up at him for saying such absurdly crude things. Especially that quip with regarding him with the quail-pipe.

But...

His nose caught the scent of Holmes thick musk which made his mouth salivate. It was so thick... and heavy... and manly... and... and...

Licking his moist, puffy lips, Watson closed his eyes and lapped the long underside.

Holmes hummed in delight, the soft friction making him tighten.

Watson lost himself to his indulgence. Stroking up one side then down the other, his lips smacked and slurped around the heated flesh. Wrapping his lips around the crown, he gently suckled the tip, flicking his tongue just below to ridge.

Holmes clawed Watson's scalp, rocking his hips with a loud groan. The good doctor must have only grown a mustache just for sin, with the way it brushed his molten skin, heightening his desire. He had to steel his urges that bellowed for him to thrust down his sweet doctor's throat.

Watson savored the soft, spongy texture of Holmes' crown and slowly took the whole length, which was not an easy feat to do. The hot skin blazed in his mouth, enjoying the silky texture upon his tongue; the trickling of bitter nectar dripping down his throat. Closing his eyes, he retracts to nearly the tip then engulfs him again.

It became a sort of tempo, the bobbing of his mouth upon the detective's firm length.

Groaning deeply, Holmes felt his eyes nearly roll back. 'He really has become quite skilled.' he thought to himself, feeling a rush of heat up his neck.

Coaxing the sinful mouth off him, which was excruciating, he hoists Watson on to his knees, settling himself right behind him.

Watson whined, wanting the thickness back in his mouth, yet allowed himself to be shifted. He was just about to ask what he was intending to do till he felt his loins slip between his thighs.

"Holmes- uh!"

"Close your legs tighter, Watson." he spoke hotly into his ear.

Watson's breath a shuddered, doing as he was told.

Holmes' long member, slick with saliva, squished between the closed skin. With a roll of his hips it, he began to thrust his slippery appendage between his whimpering boswell's thighs. It wore against the sensitive skin behind his testicles, as the head prodded the tight skin of it's genitals.

His hands held Watson's thighs tightly closed, copulating in this fashion.

Watson crooned weakly, the friction of the firm mass licked along his genitals and further lower areas. But his croons were desperate and not from the pleasure he was receiving. As good as it felt, it was not even close to satisfying the hunger he felt inside.

It was like laying a large cake before a starving man but only recieving a biscuit instead.

"Holmes..." he keened, touching his hands to Holmes'. "... wait..."

Holmes knew full well what he meant. Ceasing his hips, he inquirers further reason. "Why, whatever it the matter, my dear Watson?" he asked, tilting his hips higher to better the angle of his thrusts.

"Uh! Uh-uh-uh. No-not e-...nough... No-t enou-..." the doctor pleaded. Damn it all, his head was spinning from all the heat rushing to it. "...in..."

Oh, Holmes was relishing in the man's discomfort. "But my dear Watson. You have patients waiting..."

Watson closed his eyes and blushed, shaking his sagging his head. "... I... want..." he muttered, each word making him burn.

Taking hold of Holmes hand, he dipped it down between his legs, lacing his fingers through the back Holmes' to touch the tip of his member. "This... to fill me..." Guiding the detective's digits, he drew them up onto his pelvis. Covering Holmes' hand, he presses it down on his lower abdomen. "... here..."

Holmes' pupils dilated till his eyes were nearly consumed with black.

Rising to his feet, Holmes quickly crossed the room, locking the door. Making sure it was secure, he looked over his shoulder at his disheveled boswell, the silver in his eyes blazing like melting metals.

Watson was sprawled out on the floor, his starch shirt and waistcoat still clinging to his, otherwise, naked form. His plump arousal stood stiff and proud, flushed in a deep color, it's juice oozing from the tip and down the shaft. His thighs were moistened with a sheen, the lingering evidence of what was to come.

He raised those beautiful eyes to Holmes, hazed in need and desire, the good doctor slowly raised his arms toward him, silently beckoning him over.

Homes inwardly moaned. 'Oh, Watson. The things you do to me.'

No matter how many times he applied that seven percent into his veins, no matter how long or what hour he played his Stradivarius, nor complexity of the most brilliant crime; none would ever compare. The pleasurable bane of his existence and anchor to the trifling mundane of the every day existence. John H. Watson was his greatest addiction.

Loosening his cravat and dropping it to the floor, Holmes took his time crossing the room. The buttons of his waistcoat gave way, shedding the layer and dropping it to the floor. Toeing off his each shoe, he shrugged out of his shirt, letting it flutter to the ground.

Left only in his trousers, still undone with his arousal at full mast, Holmes sauntered, barefoot, over to where his darling doctor lay; still holding his arms out to him. Snatching the curtain, he draws it across the bow window, blocking out the outside world. Bending over, he scoops up the blushing Watson, greeting him with a kiss.

Rising, hoisting the smaller man up with his arms linked around his neck, he eases him toward the center of the room, never breaking the kiss. Watson's toes barely touched the floor before he was lowered upon the thick bear-skin hearth rug..

Easing him back, pressing the kiss longer, Sherlock Holmes reached into the open maw of the bear and removes a small jar. The jar was rather ordinary, like most jars, and contained a clear substance that was of no importance. To the ordinary person that is.

Holmes knelt before the sprawled doctor, who looked up at him with a mixture of bashfulness, eagerness, and love. Holmes' heart swelled and kissed him again, skimming his lips down his body and nestling between the doctor's legs.

Again he watched his boswell flush and looked away. _He really was a shy one when it came to these situations._

Chuckling to himself, the consulting detective looped one finger around the man's length; dragging his tongue along it's full height. And what an endearing mew he was rewarded. Swirling a tease around the smooth crown, he delves it all the way into his mouth then pulling off with a wet pop.

He lavished Watson's neglected member with all the attention and affection he could muster till it's owner was yowling and clawing at the bear-skin rug.

Using the distraction, Holmes removes the lid and dips his fingers into the gooey substance. With coated fingers, he plunges a couple slim digits into Watson's anal muscles. He hummed at the soft warmth that enveloped his fingers, his manhood twitching painfully in eager anticipation.

Watson squirmed from the intrusion, bucking his hips roughly when those beautifully masterful fingers stroked a certain area that had him seeing stars. His hips jumped like firecrackers, as if feeling them ignite inside. The feeling only intensified as more digits were added one at a time.

The opening slopped loudly around the taller man's long fingers greedily. Holmes retracted them, causing his poor Watson to sob from the emptiness.

Coating his fingers with more of the slick substance, he coats his own engorged member and positions himself. Just as he was about to plunge in to earthly heaven that awaited him, his attention was drawn back to the doctor who softly bleated his name.

Watson looked up at him, half lidded eyes darkened from arousal and adoration.

Raising his arms, he loops them around Holmes' neck, lightly pecking his lips. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and draws his lips to his ear.

"Sherlock."

Holmes gasped, nearly coming to orgasm right then and there.

Thrusting his arms around his beloved Watson, he plunges into those waiting depths that seared and inflamed him with the most exquisite agony.

Watson howled out a long throaty groan the made his whole body shake. Holmes' thick, long manhood pierced him to the core and ignited an inferno that threatened to liquify his insides like butter left out under the sun. And then it began to move.

Again and again he was filled with the blistering rod, weeping in it's merciless plunder that left him stunned and shaking; and when it retreated , he sobbed for it's return, longing for the complete fullness that brought tears of bliss streaming down his face.

Holmes was in heaven. A heaven named John H. Watson. His insides were both a blessing and a curse. It was so soft and smooth inside, tight to the point of pinching him in half. Ah, but that heat. The wondrous and cruel heat that incinerated his nerves, mind, body and soul.

Waton's toes were tight fists, his nails raking down the detective's back, leaving long red welts. His throat was becoming painfully raw, as he screamed and yowled into the man's shoulder, holding on to him as if he were the only thing keeping him grounded in this world.

Unable to hold back his voice, Holmes cried out his pleasures, snapping his pelvis fiercely into the doctor. He could feel it. His meticulous and brilliant mind dissolving like a chalk drawing in the rain. All his sharp senses, all his knowledge and expertise, fluttering from his head like startled wings. Gone. And all that remained was Watson.

_Watson. Watson. Watson._

"John..." he breathed, then climaxed. His mind, and all that was Sherlock Holmes, the great consulting detective, vanished in a bliss of white and the warmth of his flat mate, his boswell, his friend, his one and only love of his life.

Watson heard his name, and that was all it took. That one word and all things that existed around him shattered and then nothing but the strong arms that held him close were like a silent promise to never let him go.

A little while later, after regaining what little senses they had left, the two dwellers of 221B Baker Street lay sprawled upon the bear-skin hearth rug, relishing in the afterglow.

Watson, still in his now wrinkled shirt and waistcoat, lay limply before the great genius detective, letting the man toy and explore his ravished form.

Holmes idly distracted himself, drawing lazy lines across his boswell's body with his long, delicate fingers, as he playfully grazed the nape of his neck with his teeth.

"I'll have to send word to my patients, since I will not be able to attend to them today." the faithful doctor pondered aloud, inching his back closer to Holmes' chest.

Holmes smiled, nibbling on those delectable ears. "Oh, no need, my good man." he purred, lightly toying with a nipple, "I already sent word to cancel them this morning and sent your assisting practitioner in your stead."

Watson blinked. "...what?"

"Mmmm." Holmes he hummed into his ear. "I sent the message out this morning before you rose. You were so charming, dreaming away in that thin nightgown beneath those soft covers. I just couldn't allow you to leave." he explained, suckling on his earlobe.

Watson was not quite as understanding.

"**HOLMES! You damnable prat!**"

Holmes' Stradivarius was sent flying out an opened bow window.

[Info] *

Cat's paw - Type of knot used by sailors.

Man Thomas – Man's penis

Quail-pipe – Woman's tongue during sex


End file.
